The Crescent, The Silence, and The Handshake

Control had completely slipped away.

There's nowhere for you to run.

That was what Russell seemed to be saying as he launched his attack without so much as a hint of fatigue.

He vented every ounce of the savage emotion that had built up between us, and the crowd roared their approval as if it were catharsis for their very souls.

Helpless under the barrage, I tried to slip out with a few cheap shots.

Of course, it didn't work.

Every time I went for an eye rake or a low blow, Russell deflected it with effortless ease and fired back with a counter.

Flashy moves came in one after another, and he laid bare his full skill as a technician without holding anything back.

A German suplex rolled straight into a hold.

It was a difficult technique, one demanding not just power but flexibility as well.

Yet astonishingly, Russell didn't stop there. He went one step further.

I raised my shoulder off the mat to break the pin, but he didn't let go.

Like a cicada clinging to an old tree, he stayed wrapped around my waist from behind.

My flailing body was hauled backward once more.

A second German.

For a split second, my mind went dizzy.

This time too I escaped at the two count. Twisting my body hard to break free, I sank naturally down to one knee.

When I lifted my head, Russell was just getting to his feet in front of me.

We glared into each other's faces for a moment, chests heaving.

The referee had only just stood up himself.

Having confirmed that, Russell's fingers raked across my eyes.

"Gwahak?!"

It was nothing but a fake, of course, but I played along with a theatrical flop.

Russell came around behind me in that instant and went for a lightning-quick roll-up.

The referee saw my shoulders hit the mat and started counting.

One, two...!!

Barely kicking out, I stared at him in sheer disbelief. He only flashed a grin.

How did it go? An eye for an eye.

In a flash, I slipped around behind Russell. I clamped my arms around his waist and hoisted him up with everything I had.

Another German suplex erupted.

The crowd shot to their feet in shock. They'd never known I could pull off a high-difficulty move like a German suplex.

But as you could see, it was possible.

I simply hadn't used it before because it didn't fit my in-ring style.

Even Russell, sent flying backward, stared at me with a momentary look of astonishment.

That was the thing about us.

There was a time when we looked toward the same horizon and walked the same road. And in doing so, we had inevitably influenced one another.

Just as Russell had shed the skin of a simple babyface under my influence, I, in turn, had learned his craft.

Maybe it was only natural.

The drama we had built together now collided at full fury. I pressed the assault on Russell at a blistering pace.

Momentum had swung my way.

Flustered, Russell couldn't mount a proper response. And the more I used his own moves against him, the louder the crowd roared.

A snap suplex.

A Russian legsweep.

A pendulum backbreaker.

And then, finally—

All the way to the Sharpshooter.

"GGghaaaack...!!"

A devastating hold that crushed the knee and the lower back at once. Russell couldn't endure it and let out a ragged scream.

If he broke here, his pride would suffer a deep wound.

The fans watched our struggle on the edge of their seats, writhing in anticipation.

And the long match began sprinting toward its finish.

Russell started crawling forward, inch by inch. Truly staggering strength, given that I still had his legs locked.

And then he reached the ropes.

But tragically for him, cage matches had no such thing as a rope break.

I flashed a savage smile and squeezed his legs even harder.

That was the exact moment.

Russell suddenly torqued his hips and yanked, and I lost my balance, the hold collapsing as I pitched face-first to the canvas.

"Ugh?!"

Right behind that, Russell seized my legs instead.

Four limbs tangled together, and in an instant the Sharpshooter was locked in—on me.

"GRAAAAGH?!"

I thrashed in agony.

But I would not tap. Not ever.

By hook or by crook.

The searing pain of my knee being wrenched backward.

I was getting back, in full, the very hold I'd applied to him. It had been his move to begin with.

Before long, I gritted my teeth, dragged my hips forward, and squirmed free, finally finding my footing and rising from the mat.

And then something came flying at me.

A knee kick.

Crack—!

My body swayed dangerously.

Staggering back as if to fall, I hit the ropes, used their rebound, and launched at Russell in an instant.

CRACK—!!

His neck snapped back.

We had each stolen the other's finisher, and now we'd returned them once each, in their original form.

At the end of it all, Russell was the first to fall. I draped myself over him, the cover flowing naturally out of the collapse.

With the crowd holding its breath, the referee dropped for the count.

One...!

Two...!

At two-point-nine, Russell barely got a shoulder up. A collective gasp exploded from the stands.

We were both running on fumes.

We lay sprawled flat on our backs, doing nothing but gasping for air. The referee looked at the state of us and began counting.

Would this end in a double K.O.? Or would we rise to fight to the very end?

"One!"

Applause bled into a chant rippling around the arena. They were wishing, with every fiber of their being, that our war would never end.

But it couldn't last forever.

Tonight, I pass the belt on.

I make Russell a superstar.

I bring the GCW saga to a magnificent close.

I finish the story I wanted to tell Willie.

And after that, I'll cement my place on the main roster too.

When this match is over, I'll go back to the hotel and drink exactly one can of beer.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Then I'll sleep.

Every great chant there was had come pouring out.

We got up at the count of seven.

The number seven.

Lucky seven—chosen in hopes that fortune would follow our footsteps from here on out.

We traded punches.

Staggering, each one landing in turn.

Jeers and cheers alternated with every blow.

I was the first to drop to a knee.

Russell, still catching his breath, suddenly turned his back to me. People watched the abrupt movement, puzzled.

And the confusion only grew.

With his back to me, Russell ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠began climbing the steel cage.

Why on earth?

The moment he reached the top of the cage, every question in the building evaporated.

Russell turned around to face the ring.

More than twice the height of the top turnbuckle where aerial artists typically launched their moves.

In other words—three meters above the ring floor.

I rose from the mat to receive his final attack.

Don't die out there.

And don't kill me either.

The instant that thought crossed my mind, Russell leaped high into the air.

Like a hawk taking flight, he spun backward, tracing a flawless arc.

In the end, there was only one move it could ever be.

Crescent.

A massive wrestler's body, well over a hundred kilograms, plummeted toward me. I clenched my jaw and took it full-on.

That was the last thing I remembered.

Russell had covered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me.

One, two, three!

The ring bell rang three times, and the crowd unleashed a thunderous roar.

But neither of us on the ring could move a muscle. Summoning my fractured memories, I pieced together the words Russell had spoken to me in that moment.

Thank you.

He had said that, unmistakably.

...The reason this is a recollection is, frankly, that I had no memory of it at the time.

The impact had been so great that I'd apparently blacked out. In fact, I was escorted out of the ring on the referee's arm.

Russell said he had no memory of that moment either. And yet, swaying on his feet, he raised the championship belt overhead.

Then he faceplanted on the spot.

On that, the reporters from the wrestling newsletters had this to say:

The conversation carried on and on.

I pressed an ice pack to my burning forehead and picked up a can of beer with my other hand.

A quiet hotel room.

The date had already rolled over.

In just four hours, I would have to board a night flight back to GCW.

To attend the weekend meetings and to draft the script for my final weekly television appearance.

But sleep wouldn't come easily. So instead, I found myself sorting through my fractured memories in my head.

The staff at Gorilla Position and the wrestlers in the locker room had all worn faces of utter disbelief.

Baku had crushed me in a hug, bellowing you crazy bastard over and over. Then Russell and I had ridden in his car, utterly spent, back to the hotel.

Even now, a shiver ran down my spine.

Thank God I didn't die.

Anyway, once I got back and rested a bit, my head cleared, and congratulation messages came flooding in from countless people.

First, everyone at GCW.

Wrestlers and staff alike showered our match with extravagant praise.

At the same time, Harley told me we had made their dreams come true, and thanked us for it.

I mulled over what that meant, and soon reached my own conclusion.

Because in the main promotion, the moment you groom a star and send him up, his standing gets demolished before long and he's relegated to jobber duty.

The main show is the playground where the entrenched veterans squabble over who's the biggest name. There's no seat at that table for someone who clawed his way up through a developmental territory.

Of course, some do overcome those odds, endure, and climb their way to the top anyway.

But by the time they get there, the talent they once displayed so freely through GCW has long since been drained away.

Harley and the GCW staff had always mourned that fact.

And it seemed our match had finally washed away that long-held regret.

It had been proven: the GCW style works on the main stage too.

The live reaction went without saying, every expert had sent lavish praise our way, and the internet was in an absolute frenzy.

But this wasn't the end.

One thing remains.

I had already invited everyone who'd helped me—the Ebony mother and daughter, and Tiffany McMahon—to the weekly show.

And that would be where the story concludes.

Russell came back out with the belt.

As the crowd chanted his name in unison, Russell stood there wrapped in bandages, like a wounded beast.

Then he took hold of a microphone and soon offered his thanks to the thousands before him.

The crowd booed the negativity. Russell flashed a grin at it and pointed out toward the stands.

He said it with a sheepish shrug, then turned to look toward the entrance ramp.

The crowd fell silent.

But Russell paid it no mind.

Listening from Gorilla Position, I let out a bitter laugh.

"Who's calling who defeated?"

I was the winner.

Even if I'd lost the match itself, I had gained a mountain of things.

Well, but that's neither here nor there.

For the sake of what I truly wanted, I had to step into that ring right now.

Baku gave my back a firm push.

"Go get 'em, Sin."

I nodded, and to the swell of my music, I parted the curtain and walked out.

A silent crowd.

I was a wreck myself. Last week's match had been a bloodbath on that scale.

When I stepped onto the apron, Russell tried to say something to me. But I snatched the microphone out of his hand.

A chill swept across the arena.

I let the silence hang for a beat, then smiled faintly and raised the mic to my lips.

And I spoke.

"Congratulations. Champ."

Willie had once told me:

And then he'd said he hoped the two of us would stay friends for the rest of our lives.

But that... strictly speaking, was built on a false premise from the very start.

We had disliked each other from day one. Maybe we still do.

Perhaps even during the stretch when we were bound together as a tag team.

Why?

Because we each carried the same burning desire to be the very best.

But even with our hearts aligned, our paths to the top ran in opposite directions.

Russell was loyal to a fault, diligently following the righteous road—while Sin went looking for the shortcut.

Sin had no other choice. And neither, in his own way, did Russell.

Because the worlds they'd come up in were nothing alike.

Sin, forced to claw through prejudice, wallowing in the muck until he hardened into something rough and jagged.

And Russell, the young master who could afford to lecture the world about justice.

That divergence was inflamed to its breaking point by the last wish left behind by a boy who had no choice but to meet a death that came far too soon.

So much so that even the little one's dying wish seemed, cruelly, to mean nothing at all.

The two of us fell out.

We hated each other and stood opposed.

It was inevitable.

Because 'Sin' and 'Russell' were simply too different.

Of course, someone was bound to say:

'It's all scripted anyway — pro wrestling is just a staged play. Why not grant a dead kid's wish? It costs nothing.'

Or they'd call us hypocrites, say we were defiling and exploiting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the tragic death of Willie.

But... I thought differently.

Because Willie loved the pro wrestling I created.

That's why, even as our war broke his heart, he would have watched it to the very end.

The story of two men—so different they could only clash, yet who ultimately acknowledged each other in the end.

This was the script I, as a pro wrestler, wanted to give Willie.

Embarrassingly old-fashioned—and precisely because of that, the genuine friendship that everyone secretly longs for.

Even friends can fight.

Willie, after his fight with Danny, must be up in heaven by now, watching the show alongside him.

What mattered was this: even two people who are complete opposites can be friends.

Slowly, I extended my hand.

The crowd applauded, and a "YES!" chant filled the arena to bursting.

Russell hesitated for a long moment. Then, just as it seemed he would slowly reach out his hand—

He suddenly smacked mine away with all his might.

Wait, this wasn't in the script?

The instant I stood there flustered, Russell Hart abruptly threw his arms around my shoulders in a crushing embrace.

I let out a wry laugh.

"...You goddamn idiot."

"Make it big out there. Partner."

Russell's voice had gone thick with tears.

Well, what can you do, I thought, and gave his shoulder a couple of awkward pats.

The crowd's delirious roar washed over us like a surging wave.

With Russell at the helm up here, GCW would sail on, smooth and true.